Frigid Ruse
by KToon
Summary: Black dogs. Nasty mutts that will maim you to the bone. Now add Minnesota's brutal winter. Doesn't sound as appealing anymore, now does it? Now make the addition of a meticulously placed—yet illegal—bear trap, and you've got a problem.


**Rating for minor violence and foul language.**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own any of the following characters, nor the show, blah, blah, blah, I'm sure you've heard this a thousand times.**

 **To those waiting for Volition, I should have the next chapter up within this week.**

 **Alliteration to _The Boy in the Striped Pajamas_ by John Boyne. I do not own this neither.**

 **Reviews are appreciated!**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

"Sammy, you okay back there?"

Zeppelin blasts its melody throughout the atmosphere of the warm Impala, and Sam—who lay sprawled across the backseat with his legs stretched out and head propped on the door—pulls himself into a sitting position. His back cracks at the sudden movement and he rolls the kinks out of his neck with a circular motion, the air from the heater enveloping him in a comfortable warmth.

He sets the book he was reading down on the floor, and peeks his head over the bench of the front seat. The sky is dark and littered with tiny pinpoints of light from the tens of thousands of stars that hold residence in the galaxy, and the light casting from the moon hanging vastly above him is a good contrast with the rows of white pine trees lining the icy pathway that the vehicle makes its way upon.

The weather has cleared, leaving a thick blanket of snow covering just about everything in sight. It's truly beautiful, and Sam knows they have arrived in Minnesota.

Dean casts a sideways glance at him, satisfied. "We're almost there," he says, "so do you think you can maybe put the schoolwork down for a couple of hours while we're out?"

Sam scoffs, but still falls back into his seat. He looks down at the page he was working on and uses his highlighter to draw a bright, yellow streak over a patch of words at the bottom of the paperback. He smiles, happy with his decision of the most meaningful quote to him, and dog-ears the corner.

 _The Boy in the Striped Pajamas_ may be a short novel, but he felt like getting the assignment done early. Typically with hunts like the one he was on now, they would be out for a long while and then return in the early hours of the morning. By then he was normally exhausted and slept for a few good hours, before having to get up again and go to school. The essay was due in three days—which, for Sam, was more than enough time—but with high-school he was finding it more and more difficult to make room for education.

Not that Dean and his father gave two shits about learning, but oh well. It was his future, thus he would have to figure it out himself.

The street they were on quickly morphs into snow, and the Impala chugs on with the task of navigating the next mile off-road. Typically black dogs didn't venture this far north, but with the winter rolling in fast, food was scarce, and for the hikers that was a very bad thing. Before the blizzard that had just passed through the area, three people had already been maimed and as the clouds of the storm came stumbling in, John took that as an opportunity. Due to the weather, nobody else would be out and the supernatural predator would be hungry.

Once in a clearing, the car rumbles to a stop and Sam grabs his parka from the seat beside him. The temperature was easily in the tens, which complicated things slightly. Mobility was limited in heavy snow gear, an issue that they had taken into careful consideration, but people were still dying and that was what mattered. Even Sam could agree that the thing had to be stopped.

He wraps the material tight around his chest, and opens the door slightly. Dean and his father do he same. The air is a punch to the face, and Sam closes it out of pure instinct. Taking a moment to regather himself, he tries again and puts his arm over the lower side of his face so that he has some protection.

He quickly walks to the trunk and John hands him his boots along with a hat, and Sam puts them on immediately. His face is still numb, but the three layers of pants and two jackets keep his body moderately heated. It'll have to do.

He discards the wet sneakers he was wearing beforehand into the backseat, and Dean walks up to him in similar clothing.

"You good?" he asks.

Sam nods, and Dean gives him a thumbs up. Sam turns back to where John is sifting through the weapons and walks up beside him.

"You remember how to kill them?" his father asks, and Sam feels like returning the question with a snarky comment. Out of the three of them, he was pretty much the only person doing research on the actual case. Which, by the way, was extremely difficult.

The lore on black dogs was very vague, which definitely worked against him. There were various legends explaining that a black dog is an apparition, while others stated they were corporeal. With his sources contradicting each other, he had to go back to the files that predate to the 1700's, which took hours.

Instead though, he restrains himself and responds with a curt, "Yes, sir. Consecrated silver."

John tips his chin up in approval, and hands Sam his improvised pocket knife and pistol. He tucks the blade in his belt, leaving the gun in his hands. The metal of the handle feels foreign to him, each of the grooves reminding him of how much of a killer he is. Evil beings or not, he still takes a life almost every week. He shakes his head, and heads out to the front of the car where Dean waits, already ready to head out.

Unlike Dean, who craves the exhilaration of the hunt, Sam could really, honestly, think of better things to do with his time, however selfish that seems. Out of all of the much more capable people in this country, why did it have to be _him_ who was burdened with this life? He didn't understand it.

John joins them at the head, and shows them the trail map. They're in the northwest part of the Kabetogama woods, and the estimated area of where the dog is to be thought located is about a one-mile hike from the Impala.

Sam studies the features for a few moments, before heading off into the trees. He closes his eyes as he walks, and savors the sounds of the nature. When he opens them, the flashlight he holds illuminates the way, and he follows the beam of light.

It's a quiet walk for about ten minutes, before Dean picks up his pace and walks even with his brother. Sam looks at him, and Dean strikes up a conversation.

"Pretty cool to be out here at night, huh?" he observes, and Sam has to agree with him on that one. It is _very_ cool, but also very cold. He tucks his gloves in his pockets.

"Except for the nearly single-digit numbers, yeah. It's actually very nice."

Dean looks at him with worry. "You cold?"

Sam is cold, but it's not like he would admit that right now. He shrugs his shoulders. "Not really," he says smoothly.

"Sammy…" Dean warns.

"I'm fine."

"Let me know if you do get cold, though. I'll give you my outer jacket. I'm a bit warm, anyway."

Sam debates this for a moment, then lets it go.

Just then, John suddenly stops ahead of them, and Sam tightens the grip on his firearm while switching the safety off. "It's somewhere here," his father says aloud, and Sam can read the underlying message clearly. _Split up._

Dean flanks to the right, John moves forward, which leaves Sam to the left. The snow crunches with each footstep he takes, and Sam flinches every time. The air is eerie, almost as though it was leering at him, and Sam shudders under the taunting semblance. He can feel the creature is near. Stalking them. Watching them. It's too smart of an animal to not be aware of the hunters approaching threateningly.

Black dogs are rumored to be smarter than some humans—an intelligence too complicated for them to understand. Dean and his father downplay it, but Sam knows that this hunt is not going to be a smooth one. Sam second-guesses John a _lot_ , but now he's beginning to wonder if he should have brought up the fact that splitting up was _not a good idea._

The snap of a twig to his 5 o'clock makes him whip around, barrel of the gun raised. He sees nothing in the treeline, but knows that it's here. Thoughts race through his mind, and he makes a decision quickly. The dog is working out its predicament, picking out the weakest of the prey, and Sam knows that. He has never been as strong as his family.

Swiftly, he aims the gun to the sky and fires two shots. Not enough to waste ammo, but just the amount to be a warning shot.

A throaty growl resounds from the complete opposite side of from where he heard the stick, and his heart nearly skips a beat. This thing can move, and it can move fast—something that was _not_ mentioned in the lore. His breathing speeds up, and he takes a defensive position.

Turning in a 360, he stops dead when a pair of yellow, glowing eyes poke out from behind the foliage. They stay like that for what seems forever, taking stock of their opponents' builds with an intense stare.

"Come on…" Sam mutters under his breath. Louder, he repeats, "Come on, you ugly _bitch!_ "

The dog takes that as a challenge, and immediately Sam can see the dark figure racing for him at a nauseating speed. He holds his ground and aims, firing precise shots. One of them lands, and despite the dog releasing a painful yelp, it's not enough to kill it. He merely hit the shoulder, yet it was enough to make it retreat into the woods.

" _Sam!"_

His name is a ringing bell in the near-silent forest screaming _I'm right here! Come and get me!_ Sam doesn't respond to his father's call, instead staying vitally still. The dog is still here. He can feel it.

He curses his dad for being so reckless, and does it again when he can hear padded running behind him. He turns around, just in time to see the dog charging right for him in a zig-zagged pattern. He fires his last bullet in the chamber (" _Always count your bullets, Sammy. You never know when you'll run out.")_ and misses. The strafing threw him off, and now he was paying the price.

With no options left, he high-tails it and runs towards where he heard his father before. The dog is close behind, and Sam is pretty sure it's toying with him. He takes this as an advantage, and while he's sprinting, he digs through his pockets for the extra ammunition. With shaky hands he loads it, and turns to face the dog.

It's a beautiful creature really, with smooth black skin and a head held high. It walks to a stop and looks at him, cocking its head. Sam wonders why he's not dead yet. Perhaps later he may think that it was because he is a fifteen year-old child who shouldn't even be here in the first place, and instead is an optimist who has been placed in a bad situation. They stand there at an impasse, and Sam lowers his gun slowly. The creature takes a step back, and Sam relaxes ever so slightly.

That's when he hears his dad running up behind him.

The dog raises its hackles and bares its teeth, and Sam decides now is the time to _leave._ He can hear his brother screaming his name to run, and he does just as such. After gaining some distance and using the trees for cover, he turns back and looks at Dean and John. He's about thirty meters away with a clear shot.

The hound is low to the floor, almost touching it, and ready to attack. Regretfully, he holds the gun tightly and takes aim.

He doesn't even know what happens. The wind brushes a tree in front of him, disrupting his shot, and he moves a pace to the right in order to clear it. That's when the unbearable pain shoots up his leg and through his lower back, all the way up to his neck. He thinks he screams, but at this point every sound is the same: fuzzy and unidentifiable. At some point he had fallen to the ground, but he can't even feel his lower body at this point and part of him thinks that's probably a bad thing.

Focusing, he looks down and can make out through hazy vision steel and white. But that's not right—this is a protected forest, and it's winter. Those were illegal, either way.

The bear trap is clamped just above his ankle and through his boot, the teeth digging sharply into his skin. Blood leaks from the holes in his foot, and he wills himself away from looking at the sight. _Bear traps._ Sure, there were black bears in Minnesota, but they were in a _protected area_ with _protected bears._ Trapping here was against the law; and anyway, who would be hunting in the winter?

He supposes the trap could have been set in autumn and he didn't see it because it was buried beneath the snow. That's not the point though. The point was he was trapped here, with a bear trap on his foot, and he was in _pain._

Whimpering, he shifts his position, and he feels another round of fire travel through his body. He can hear himself yell in sync with it, and wonders if his family can hear him.

His family. _Are they dead? Did they kill the dog?_ The questions are in his head before he can stop them, and he can feel his breathing start to speed up. _He can't breathe, he can't breathe, why can't he breathe?_ He's panicking and he knows it, but he can't stop and he doesn't know what to do.

He looks around frantically as white patches begin to flash in front of his eyes, and he starts to thrash. The movement was a bad decision and he screams again, this time for his brother.

Only the sound of running to his right makes him stop, and desperately he looks around for his discarded gun. It's just behind him, and he snatches it quickly and fires a full round into the treeline. The shots are wild and completely random, but he _can't breathe_ and focusing isn't necessarily and option right now.

"— _am! Sam! Stop! We—"_

The words are choppy and the world is spinning, but Sam knows Dean's voice anywhere. He drops the pistol into the snow, and falls onto his back, gasping in air. Before he knows it, figures are above him and he is thankful he's not alone.

They're speaking to him.

Sam can't hear.

* * *

When he awakes, it's to something freezing cold on his face. _Snow._

He tries to sit up, but something holds him down and a voice is saying in his ear, "Sam, you need to stay down! Dean! Hold him! Goddamnit—I don't care how you fucking hold him, just keep him on the ground!"

Hearing his father's voice brings him some clarity, and he settles slightly. The pain is a reminder to him of his problem, and he groans.

"Sam, can you hear me?" John asks, hovering over his face. "You need to stay awake, son. No passing out on us again, you hear me? Do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal," Sam says, and it comes out as a whisper.

"Thank God," John thankfully replies, and Sam supposes he did something right, as praise is not a commodity to him. "I need you to listen to me, alright? You need to stay calm and not move. The more you struggle, the more this thing is going to tighten."

Sam manages to find the strength to give his dad an acknowledging shake of his head, and tries to relax his body as much as a person can in a situation like this.

"Alright…" John trails off, examining the metal snare. Sam isn't looking, but he can feel his father's gloved fingers prodding his boot and the skin around it. It stings with every touch—like a very severe sunburn would—and he bites his lip. "Okay. So it's a pretty common trapping mechanism, not designed to fatally injure but rather incapacitate the target," John informs. "Two jaws, two leaf springs, the middle trigger. Pretty basic stuff, and I'm sure your boot prevented a lot more damage from being done. We need a c-clamp to open it though. Can you move your toes, Sam?"

Sam inhales deeply and tries to curl his toes in, but when he finds himself unable to do so he nearly chokes. "N-No, I can't. I can't. Why can't I? Dad?"

Dean looks like he's about to throw up, and Sam can't blame him. He feels the same way, and he's sure it's even worse to look at it from his brother's perspective. "Dad?" Dean asks, looking for reassurance but somehow managing to keep his voice steady. Soldier-like.

"I-I...I don't know," John admits, his voice having a slight edge to it. "Without a doubt you've got a good amount of bones snapped in your leg...could be the muscle damage. We won't know until we get you out of here, but I'm guessing it's just shock from the injury."

"Okay…" Sam says, attempting to calm himself. "Okay. You say we need a c-clamp to open it, but we're about a fifteen minute walk from the car, and that's even if we have one in there. How are we going to do this?"

John sits back on his feet, rubbing a hand across his face. "I don't know."

Dean decides to step in at this point, having been silent for a majority of the time. "Dad, just go back to the car and see if we've got something. I'll stay here with him. If you have any extra blankets or jackets or _anything_ in there, bring them. He's fucking freezing, and we still need to stop the bleeding."

John nods, standing up. "Alright. See if you can slow it down. Use the snow to numb it too."

"Yes, sir. Be careful."

John looks back one more time before turning around and starting a fast-paced jog to where they came from. Sam looks up to Dean's face, and for a brief moment he can see past the façade of stone, and all that's there is fear.

Dean takes a seat next to him, and Sam turns his head. "How'd you know I was cold?" he asks, remembering what Dean said to his father.

Dean scoffs, and replies, "You've been cold since we've started this hunt. You've gotta be frozen by now."

Sam laughs, but then winces as he feels the snow being placed on his foot. "That hurt?" Dean questions, and Sam merely shoots him a look of annoyance. "Right," he mutters. "Well, this would be a lot easier if I could get your boot off. You got your knife with you still?"

Sam digs his hands into his belt, and hands his brother his switchblade. "Nice."

As soon as the blade begins to cut through the leather, Sam holds his breath and tries not to think about the pain. It feels as though a thousand tiny pins are being pushed into his foot, and he scrunches his eyes shut. "Sam, I need you to keep breathing for me. Don't stop, even though this hurts," Dean reprimands sternly, and Sam obliges.

By the time the boot is nearly cut open, Dean suddenly stops. "Shit," he hisses.

"What?"

"Shit, shit, shit, shit."

"Dean, I need you to talk to me. What's wrong?"

"T-The steel!" he exclaims. "It's fucking rusted!"

Sam falls silent at that, a new kind of panic setting in. Infection is almost a guarantee now, and a hospital visit is a must. The incident happened about thirty minutes ago so he still has plenty of time before he starts to feel the effects, but by now the bacteria has had plenty of time to get in the wound.

Since it's rusted, Sam knows tetanus and gangrene is a huge possibility, and he can feel a new onslaught of terror rush through him. "Forget it," he says instead. "Focus on stopping the bleeding first. One thing at a time."

Dean does just that, mumbling something about having the worst luck.

About five minutes of silence passes, and Sam starts to feel slightly sick. "Dean?" he asks, trembling. "Dean, I—"

A movement of brush to his right stops him mid sentence. Dean stills, and slowly moves for his gun in the back of his snow pants. "Dean?" Sam whispers.

"Quiet."

Sam follows his movements, reaching for his own gun and reloads the clip. Before he can react, a black figure is charging right for them, making him yelp in surprise. He fires three of his nine bullets, but Dean is the one to land a shot directly in the head. The beast falls to the ground, and Sam stares in shock.

"I thought you _killed it!_ " Sam nearly yells.

"We did!" Dean cries, running a hand through his exposed hair. "We did fucking kill it! I thought you said they weren't pack animals!"

Sam seethes with anger. "They _aren't_ , according to the very limited number of sources I had!"

"Well, obviously they are!"

Suddenly, the world is a kaleidoscope and Sam is the one in the middle of it. "Sammy?" he hears Dean ask, before he's dry heaving to the side. It's an awkward and painful position to be in, his upper body twisted to the side while he keeps his lower straight.

He feels Dean's hand on his back, rubbing soothing circles, and he continues to gag with each breath. A minute passes and the painful retching subsides, leaving Sam struggling for breath.

"Just breathe," Dean says comfortingly. "Breathe. In and out. Match it with mine, okay?"

Sam tries, and he finds air more easy as the seconds pass. That's when his dad decides to breath through the trees at a full sprint. He's breathing heavy, and Sam thinks he sprinted the full mile back to them.

"I heard shots," John pants, before spotting the limp black dog on the ground. "There was another?"

"Yes, sir," Dean answers, before following up with, "and we've got a problem." The moment John hears the news about the rust, everything seems to speed up. John ushers them to disconnect the chain connecting the trap to the tree root in which holds him in place, and a new plan forms now that they're on a serious time crunch.

The blankets John brought are wrapped around Sam, and Dean gets down on one knee beside his head. Dean rolls the corner of one of the fabrics and puts it in Sam's mouth, an apologetic look on his face. Sam knows what's about to happen, and he'd be lying if he said he wasn't scared.

Since his father had found the tools they needed in the trunk with all the other mechanical stuff, and now that they were in a hurry to treat the wounds, they had to open the trap now. Plus, there was no cell-service from where they were in the forest, which means that they had to drive Sam to the closest hospital. They didn't even know where that was.

"Dean, make sure you hold him down. This is going to hurt like hell," John orders, and Dean responds with a nod.

"Ready Sam?" he then asks.

"No," Sam huffs, "but go ahead and get it over with."

John starts to loosen the springs, and Sam can feel the metal slowly pull out of his skin. There's no doing this fast, and the pain is the most intense he has ever felt; his teeth clamp down on the blanket and he screams through the temporary gag, his body unwillingly bucking. Dean holds him down though, and Sam can't tell whether that makes things better or worse.

At this point, he doesn't even notice when the trap is disconnected from his foot—the pain is all the same to him.

"Sam. Sammy, it's done. It's out." Dean's voice is soft, an attempt to calm him, but Sam isn't paying attention. All he can focus on is the _pain_.

He hears John firmly say, "Let's go, Dean," and Sam doesn't even get a second to process what this means before he is hoisted in the air. John holds his legs, just above the puncture wounds, and Dean carries his shoulders. He might have screamed again, but then again he's dizzy with pain and nothing really makes sense to him.

It's like that for a while—at least 20 minutes—and when he's finally set down on leather seats and his foot is wrapped in a jacket to stim the bleeding, he feels like going to sleep. He's sweating, and he needs to take off his outer layer, but when he tries to move both Dean and John chastise him to stay still. Faintly, he can hear the conversation going on in the front seats as Dean frantically searches the town map for the closest hospital.

He also hears the curse that would make a sailor proud as he reads out, "Rainy Lake Medical Center...it's about a forty minute drive. Fucking hell."

John instantly slams his hands on the steering wheel in frustration and starts out at an obnoxiously fast speed. It's bumpy as hell and with each jerk Sam can't help but release a groan.

"There...there, there, there. I've got service," Dean says aloud after about ten minutes. Sam doesn't remember them talking about calling 9-1-1, but he assumes that's what they're doing as Dean is then talking to someone on his phone.

From then on it's pretty hazy, but as soon as he is lifted out of the Impala's backseat and onto a stretcher, he starts to worry. He wants to be in _his car,_ with _his family_ , and not in an ambulance with an oxygen mask on like he is now. He wants his brother, and he wants his father, and before he knows it a panic attack is creeping up on him.

The EMT's are shouting all sorts of distorted words around him, and the sirens are overwhelmingly loud.

He welcomes the darkness.

* * *

The beeping is surprisingly loud compared to the silence of the room.

Sam instantly knows where he's at, and tries to sit up. When he does so however, he stops short after noticing a small head lying on his legs. Dean looks so young while he's asleep, the worry creases still there but not as intense as before.

This is how Dean _should_ look. Not overwhelmed by everything else, not being concerned about nearly dying every day. He should be a normal person with a normal life and a normal job. Perhaps maybe even a wife.

Sam thinks back to the book he was reading before this all started, and the quote he chose for his essay.

" _What exactly was the difference? He wondered to himself. And who decided which people wore the striped pajamas and which people wore the uniforms?"_

Sam can see the true meaning behind this quote, now.

You don't choose who you are.

You are who you are.

Nothing can change that.

And sometimes, yes, that can be hell.

But everybody has a purpose.

You just need to find yours.

Sam wonders about his purpose. Sometimes he wonders if he even has a purpose at all. But now he knows. He saves countless lives, and gives people futures. For one woman he saves, it can butterfly branch off. That woman could meet a man. They could have children. The cycle could continue, and before Sam knows it he has allowed a hundred or more people to enjoy life.

 _That's_ his purpose.

He leans back into his pillow, and closes his eyes. He can feel the cast wrapped around his foot, the IV pumping fluids into his body. He's curious as to how many bones have been snapped like a pencil; but as long as he saved somebody, then it doesn't really matter.

He listens to Dean's deep breaths.

He smiles.

 _fin_


End file.
